a waxing crescent grows thicker
every day—a careening sickle
half-hugged and begging
—below, flying flecks
of salt. The

pang-tamed wile—gems wrapped in
foil and heated in
god’s shadow in space. I am

close to those I love. I am

made of molten jewels.
meltingly.
meltingly. bowl of

wisdom—a dish for
old mints and mammalian
eyes. These tears—

they are mine.